Maybe
by Pikeru's Angel
Summary: He would consider it, which really was amazing in its self. But this was John. He never could flat-out say no to John. Shohn. Fifth in my Sapphir series. T for off-screen murder and allusions to child abuse.


Like most things with the two of them, the beginning of it started at the end. A case closed about a week after their wedding. It had been fairly simple, in Sherlock's opinion. A married couple found murdered in their home while their daughter was at school. The mother killed the husband is a fit of rage thanks to her well-hidden psychosis. When she snapped out of it and realized what she'd done, she killed herself. Stupidly simple. But the daughter -a young redhead who had just turned six- had needed a place to say while social services sorted the whole mess out. And John, being John, volunteered their flat.

Which how it came to be that John stood in the doorway of what used to be his room, watching the young girl sleep. They'd been meaning to turn that room into a study, more for their own sanity than anything else, but had never gotten around to it. "After the wedding," John had said. "We'll convert it after the wedding when we're less busy." Now he wasn't sure he wanted to.

A pair of think arms snaked around his neck, and John smiled as her felt Sherlock's breath hitting his neck. "You coming to bed?" He asked, and there was something undeniably awkward about his movements. He still hasn't all that good at showing his affection outright, but it was getting better.

John nodded, playing with the ring on his finger as he'd become wont to do in the past month. "In a minute," he said at last. The taller man chuckled.

"You said that half an hour to go, John." He pointed out playfully. "And the hour before that."

"I know. It's just…" The blond trailed off, sighing. "Do you want kids? I mean, obviously we'd adopt, but do you?" At that Sherlock immediately stiffened, nervous hands suddenly stopping cold. John's eyes widened. "I would one hundred percent be fine if you didn't!" He said quickly. "I was just curious!"

He felt Sherlock nod on his shoulder, more in understanding than as a yes. "I don't think it would be a good idea," he replied quietly. "We're both busy. You at the surgery and then the cases… And I'm not what one would call father material." And why did he sound scared at the thought? John couldn't think of why. He was sure he knew thought. Why couldn't he remember?

"That's fine." He said with a shrug. "I'll make us both a cuppa and we're head off to bed. That spiced green tea you bought, right?" And they both knew the answer to that. The spiced green tea (open leaf) was the only tea in the house and Sherlock had refused to buy anything else.

It is only after Sherlock had walked up to bed and John is putting the kettle on that he realizes what just happened. This was the closest they had come to talking about _it_ since Sherlock's confession the week before the wedding. John doesn't know why he didn't think of it before he opened his mouth. He shouldn't have mentioned kids. As he pours the tea, his left hand had a distinct tremor and Sherlock's teary voice rings through his head.

"_I couldn't deal with it, John." The words are said through heavy sobs, and need not be clarified. "Not after what he did. I'd slip. I'd go into his habits if I lost my temper. I couldn't live with myself if I made someone go through what I did. God, John. Please tell me this won't affect us. Please tell me you won't leave because of this, John."_

_John nodded, clutching his fiancé to his chest. Hushed words of comfort are said into nearly dead air, but Sherlock just sobs harder…_

"Ow! Damnit!" John cursed quietly, realizing as he'd gotten lost in his own memories the tea had overflowed onto his hand. The incredibly hot tea. That was going to hurt later, he thought, glancing at the red skin. He wiped the burnt limb on his pants, cleaning up the spilt tea. To the very least it had been his own, not Sherlock's.

He grabbing the two steaming mugs, nudging open the bedroom door. He places his own tea (it's a Union Jack mug his sister got him before he enlisted, which was unsurprising) on the nightstand. Putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The younger man flinches slightly, but the far off look in his eyes recedes a bit.

Pale, slender hands curl around the mug as it's offered to him, but he doesn't so much as glance at John. He brings the trembling glass up, taking a sip awkwardly. The blond sighs, his hand coming back to rest on his lap as he sits down.

"It really doesn't matter to me." He said into silence. "I just get nostalgic and idiotic whenever I see little kids sleeping. I used to take care of my little cousins while I was in medical school, so it just made sense to adopt. Actually, it seems a bit odd, knowing there won't be a kid in the house again. Or not for a while at least for a while." Sherlock stiffens slightly beside him, leaning slightly to the left and away from John. "But that doesn't matter. I've got you, which is more than enough." He smiles slightly, though it quickly turns to a frown. "And, if it's any consolation, I think you'd make great dad, especially if we adopted a kid who was actually taken away from their parents. You'd know what they've been through."

There's a laugh, dry and humorless, from Sherlock there. "Children who are abused by their parents are highly likely to become abusers themselves." He said, voice thick, and the shaking is getting worse.

Sherlock didn't react when John put his arm around slim shoulders. "You have never, to my knowledge, raised a hand to anyone in anything more than self defense, and anything you've ever done with anyone had been willing on both parts." And _that_ really doesn't need to be explained. They both know what John's talking about."You would never do that to anyone, _especially_ a child."

Sherlock seems like he's going to say something when the door creaks open, slow and tentative, and the little redhead peeked in.

"Doctor?" She said quietly, voice soft and so, so innocent. Like her parents hadn't just effectively killed each other. "I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you?" John glances at Sherlock, who is suddenly stick straight and looking incredibly nervous, when he smiles at her.

"Of course, Amelia." A wide grin breaks out on her small face, and she rushes over, toppling over John who in turn knocked Sherlock down with him. The six-year-old climbs over them, settling herself firmly at the middle of the bed, and pouts until doctor and detective lay down on either side of her. Sherlock had the most bewildered look on his face as he turns out the light. John just smiles, and settles down. They'll continue their conversation in the morning.

{][][}

The first rays of sunlight creep their way through the London fog just as John is waking up. Hazel eyes open blearily and the first thing he sees is the tea mugs. Their cold and still mostly full, just sort of sitting there on the nightstand. John groaned, stretching as he turned over on his other side, when he froze.

_Now that,_ he thought, _is_ _adorable._

Sherlock is lying on his side, head propped up on his arm as his pillow seemed to be sitting dejectedly at his feet. Amelia is curled up against his chest, bright red curls splayed across the mattress as she loosely gripped Sherlock's white t-shirt. The dark haired man has a decidedly contented look on his face, other hand sort of subconsciously running through the little girl's hair. He glanced at John through a half-lidded gaze, and pale cheeks turned a bright pink that only seemed to add to the cuteness of the scene.

After several long, semi-awkward moments, Sherlock resumed, though now he was glancing up every few seconds. Like a nervous child who has just asked to hold their new baby sibling. John nearly winces at his own analogy.

"Maybe," Sherlock suddenly says to dead air. John blinked, propping himself up on his elbows.

"Maybe," the taller man said again. "We could adopt." He glanced up again, approval seeking gaze piercing into John's confused one. "A little boy, perhaps?"

John smiled, kissing his boyfriend on top of his head. "Sounds perfect." He grabbed the two mugs, standing up as he made his way out. "I'll start breakfast."

Domestic bliss, despite what anyone may have said, really did suit Sherlock.

{][][}

**A/N: You know, as I was witing this I couldn't help thinking "I promised I would never do anything like this. A string of one-shots where I get so many I just decide to make it its own series on my profile." Threw that out the window, didn't I? This is five out of what I'm hoping to be seven... My gosh. Wow. This feels weird.**

**Never thought I'd actually ask, but please review! It helps me know -with my under-abundant self confidence in my writing- that I'm doing something right. Or semi-right. And I will PM reviewers John's jumpers, just to throw in a bribe.**

**~Piki :B**


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